


Yes, Mr. Skinner, There *Is* A Virginia

by thebasement_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2000-07-15
Updated: 2000-07-15
Packaged: 2018-11-20 18:25:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11340906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebasement_archivist/pseuds/thebasement_archivist
Summary: Pure fluffiness in which things aren't always what they seem, but it then turns out everyone likes it that way.





	Yes, Mr. Skinner, There *Is* A Virginia

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

 

Yes, Mr. Skinner, there *is* a Virginia by rac

Yes, Mr. Skinner, there *is* a Virginia  
by rac / June 2000  
Rating: NC-17 Yup, there be sex in them thar hills. What kind? Well...  
Archiving: Yes, with all headers intact.  
Spoilers: No real ones, maybe the odd one for Avatar.  
Summary: Pure fluffiness in which things aren't always what they seem, but it then turns out everyone likes it that way.  
Thanks to: Sam and Carol for their enthusiasm. And to Carol for the title. And to devo, who flew down for the week just to play :) And to Train, for a subtle, magical song that nobody gets <g>.  
Will be up at my website with a lovely graphic cdavis made for it: <http://enook.net/hl/rac/virginia.htm>  
Feedback of any variety to: 

* * *

*^*^*^*^*^*^  
You see her confidence is tragic,  
But her intuition magic,  
And the shape of her body, unusual.  
Meet Virginia.

/Train/

*^*^*^*^*^*^

Round Robin Bar  
The Willard Inter-Continental Hotel  
Washington, DC

"Hey, big boy, how about a drink?"

He didn't turn and look. Walter Skinner finished the drink in his hand and ran through a list of optional replies. God knows, from the sound of it, she didn't warrant much more than a, "Sorry, just leaving." He hated tacky pick-up lines; hell, nowadays, he loathed bar pick-ups. And that was one learned response he wasn't interested in changing.

The empty glass went on the bar, and he grabbed up his overcoat and turned to the woman who'd shouldered in next to him, brusquely polite words all but tripping off his tongue.

And abruptly slammed his mouth shut before he uttered them, a flush of red coloring his face as the truth hit him in the eyeballs.

She wasn't talking to him.

She smiled engagingly at the bartender, her chin in her hand as she leaned on the bar, watching as he fiddled with a glass, concocting her drink. Louis must know her...she hadn't told him what she wanted. Either that, or she was a repeat customer this evening. Skinner eyed her clothes, a dark green, very fancy outfit, and tall...he glanced down. No heels. Hell, the woman must be six foot tall, a virtual Amazon. Not the run-of-the-mill cool blonde or sleek brunette that usually prowled the upscale bars, looking for money men and power brokers.

In any event, she hadn't been coming on to him, probably didn't care less that he stood there. You're getting as paranoid and touchy as Mulder. Get over it, quick, he advised himself.

As he shouldered into his overcoat, someone jostled him and he took a half-step to correct his balance, ramming an elbow into the shoulder of Ms. Big Boy.

He sighed. "I'm sorry. You okay?"

The woman turned her gaze onto him fully for the first time, her long, thick brown hair falling in waves over her shoulders. "Yes, no harm done." She smiled that same shyly engaging smile in his direction. "It was an accident." She shuddered. "I had to leave Senator Matheson's reelection party--the men in there couldn't blame their hands on an accident. Where's some good, old-fashioned saltpeter when you need it?"

He stared at her, annoyed that she amused him. He wasn't sure whether she wanted to blow them up or simply cool down their ardor. "I'm glad I left before you could take action. Believe me, having to endure the conversation in there was almost as tedious." He shrugged his coat more firmly on his shoulders. "Good luck." He nodded his head back toward the Crystal Room full of good ol' boys.

She sent him a wistful look. "Thanks."

As he made his way back down Pennsylvania Avenue in the lamp-lit dark, Skinner frowned. She'd looked familiar, very familiar. Something about the eyes, an unusual, changeable color, and the shape of the face, hidden partially by her long, wavy brown hair. But he was damned if he could place her.

And given his past experiences, that teasing familiarity edged through his nerves and made him antsy. Even after arriving back home in his condo, he stayed up for hours on the computer, slogging through his work backlog.

Still unable to place that face.

*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*

Two weeks later  
"701 Pennsylvania Avenue" restaurant  
Washington, DC

The lunch crowd had come and gone before 3:00, and the place had barely reopened for the dinner and pre-theater crowd, just now past 5:30. Skinner settled back in his chair, nursing his drink and hoping the kitchen would be even faster than its usual efficient timing. He'd skipped lunch, had meetings and conferences straight through the day and by 5:00, his stomach was making indecent noises. Kim had grinned at him when he followed her out of the building, feeling too much like a wild animal intent on finding its next kill to fill the gnawing hole in his belly.

He thought he even might have tried that snake he'd passed up in 'Nam, if someone had offered it to him in his office just now. The slugs he'd pass on, once again. He'd have to be a hell of a lot closer to starvation before he'd let those things pass his lips.

The arrival of his vegetable-and-lentil soup coincided with the opening trill of music; the piano player had started. Bliss. Bliss in his mouth and stomach, bliss in his ears. He cherished the small things in life these days.

The dining room had a trickle of people coming in, rapidly filling up with the Friday night pre-theater crowd. A small flurry of activity at the next single table preceded the maitre d' escorting a lone person to be seated there. He didn't pay much attention, his mind drifting with the changing songs from the piano. But a familiar voice lured him to glance over just as the waiter moved away with an order.

The brunette from The Willard. Again. Right next to him.

All his alarms went off. There was such a thing as too coincidental.

He aimed a ferocious glare her way. "What are you doing here?"

When she looked up, he observed the wildest fluctuating palette of skin color he'd ever seen. First she blanched, all color draining away, then it crept back in, suffusing her cheeks with the warmest, rosiest glow of embarrassment.

When she spoke, she stuttered awkwardly. "Oh, d-damn. I am so sorry, this seems so planned, sitting here." A hand went to her cheek in an strangely graceful move, strange because of her size, her strong hand and long fingers. She looked around for the waiter. "I'll move to another table. I don't want to bother you." She appeared truly horrified, her eyes distraught as she avoided Skinner's gaze.

Abruptly, he felt like the biggest jerk alive, worse than the good ol' boys at The Willard, with their ignorantly groping hands. Glaring daggers at a complete stranger and scaring her to death... Paranoia, thy name isn't Mulder any longer, he thought. They may be rare, but coincidences do occasionally happen.

Feeling badly about his behavior, Skinner pushed his chair back. "I'm the one who needs to apologize," he admitted roughly. "I don't know what came over me. Chalk it up to a bad day and bad thoughts. The people under me at work call me Bulldog, or Stone Face, or--well. I suppose they've gotten creative as an outlet after visiting my office."

The woman stared at Skinner with her eyebrows climbing toward her hair, both surprise and hesitation stamped on her posture. Her mouth twitched. "I can imagine."

An unexpected impulse had Skinner gesturing to his own table. "Please, join me. I promise not to growl anymore."

"Well..." she hesitated, torn, as the waiter returned with her drink.

Skinner did something at which he excelled: he made an executive decision. "Put it down here. The lady is joining me for dinner."

"Excellent." The waiter deposited her whiskey at Skinner's table and hastily arranged a place setting for her.

She still seemed hesitant and cautious as she sunk the long, sturdy length of her body into the soft chair opposite Skinner, and he couldn't blame her. He'd really behaved like an ass.

The color still lingered in her cheeks. "I, uh, I usually don't sit down with gentlemen I don't know."

Skinner gave her a small, half-smile. "At least you're calling me a gentleman."

She gave a flurry of her hand, and looked down at the table. "Everybody has bad days. Some of us more than others."

Skinner examined her over the edge of his glass. He wasn't the only one with long-term stress. He saw it in the lines around her eyes, at the edges of her mouth. She wore more make-up than he liked; he usually preferred a more natural look, less 'big hair' and eyeliner. But it wasn't too bad, and she was oddly attractive, despite the drawn look to her features. He certainly hadn't helped by jumping down her throat.

"Walter Skinner, with the FBI." He held out his hand in an curiously formal manner for her to shake. "Supposedly one of the good guys, when I'm not chewing up women for dinner." His flattened mouth showed his disgust.

Her mouth pursed as she held back laughter, but her eyes crinkled. "Virginia. Virginia Follis." She took his hand with a sturdy grip for only a moment. "Funny, I must have missed that appetizer on the menu. Do you think they make it with men?"

Skinner laughed quietly. He still felt an underlying unease, but thought now it must be remnants of the horror he'd gone through a few years ago when he'd gotten entangled with an unfamiliar woman. Since then, there had been no social contact with women in his life. None. The Catholic church of his youth would be proud of him, saying that putting the fear of God (and of man, and woman, too) in him had done him good, put him on the straight and narrow.

Well, the past two years had certainly been narrow. And cold. And lonely. Perfunctory. Except for, of course, his wild child, the X-Files unit and its trouble-magnet of a supervisor. But that was work--this was his personal life. Hopefully private, too, although one never knew. He glanced around covertly, saw nothing out of the ordinary, and glanced back at the woman across the table from him.

She was definitely out of the ordinary...for him, for anybody. Just...odd. But it was only dinner, and the company was welcome. "What do you do, Virginia?"

She hesitated, frowning and twisting her glass.

He'd put his foot in it again. "I don't mean to pry."

She shook her head quickly. "Forgive my foolishness. Actually, I'm a writer. I write travel pieces. Keeps me going all over the place."

"That sounds interesting. I'm chained to a desk most of the time these days. Where was the last place you went?"

In fits and spurts, their conversation was off and jogging.

*^*^*^*^*^*^

The quick, short dinner break Skinner planned taking went by too quickly. He glanced at his watch, saw visions of the paperwork left spread all over his mahogany desk, and knew he'd have to cut this short soon. But he felt shocked to realize he didn't want to end it; he'd enjoyed himself for the first time in ages.

Virginia had a dry, wicked sense of humor and told the most marvelously outrageous stories, all in her husky, slightly shy voice. There was obviously more to her than met his eye, and he felt the urge to uncover it.

"So what does a travel writer like to do on the weekends she's in town and not globe-trotting across the world? Attend lectures at GWU? Go to gallery shows in Georgetown? Take in the theater or the symphony?"

The color that had long since faded from Virginia's face painted another rosy blush across her cheeks. She laughed, uncertainly. "No, none of the above. I, uh, I've got tickets to see the Wizards play San Antonio tonight."

That threw him. Basketball? Damn. It sounded a hell of a lot more interesting than the scads of work he had planned.

"I, uh, I--well, Walter, I've got an extra ticket if you'd like to see the game." Her eyes slid away uneasily after a quick glimpse at him. "A friend was supposed to go, but she's not feeling well and decided to stay home."

Skinner had the feeling he was missing something, something crucial, something salient, but like it had the first time he'd met this woman, the feeling only hovered around the edges and disturbed him. It didn't reveal anything illuminating.

"Walter? If you're not interested, that's fine. The game starts at 7:00, so I'm going to have to leave now or be late. I...my car's parked in a garage, so I have to walk down to the arena."

The MCI Center was just around the corner from the Hoover. In the same direction Skinner needed to walk. So close. He shouldn't let her walk all those blocks by herself. It'd be unsafe and rude.

And he could see the Wizards and the Spurs, live.

Skinner caught the eye of their waiter, motioned for the check. "Then we better get going. We don't want to miss the start of the game."

The smile Virginia gave him was slow to blossom, but brilliant. It had been a long time since Skinner knew he'd pleased another person that much, and so easily. He liked it. Hell.

*^*^*^*^*^*^

She cheered and hollered and at times, cursed like a stevedore, this odd woman with too much hair and make-up, her plain, almost matronly navy pants suit and flat heels. Although Skinner was grateful she wore flats; he didn't know how he'd feel to have a woman towering over him. And when she cursed, each time she seemed to realize what she'd said and went quiet with embarrassment.

By the second half, Skinner was chagrined to realize he'd begun wondering just what all that unexpected, uninhibited enthusiasm would be like in bed.

No, no, no, he told himself. Don't go there.

Which was a little like telling himself not to think of pink elephants. He couldn't help but wonder how far down her white skin the blushes went, if they started down and flushed up, or started up and flushed down. They fascinated him; he wanted to trace the progression.

By the time the game was over, he was ready to blush from his unspoken thoughts. Ridiculous in a man of his age and situation in life.

They flowed out the exits with the rest of the arena's crowd, coming to stand out on 7th Street.

"Walk with me to get my car, and I'll give you a lift home," Skinner gestured down 7th and over to the Hoover on 9th.

That seemed to fluster her. "Oh. No, no, thanks, I'll just catch the Metro right here. Takes me right home."

Skinner didn't push. "Thanks for inviting me along. Much better than working all evening."

A smile curled Virginia's lush mouth. "I thought so, too."

Lush. Damn, her mouth really was lush. Full lips. "I..." he fumbled through his pockets, withdrew his FBI shield case and pulled out a business card. "Here's my number, in case you want to get in touch with me again." He didn't want to ask for hers, didn't want to scare her after acting like a neanderthal earlier in the evening. "You'll be okay going home by yourself?" He frowned at the thought.

"Yes, Walter," she smiled. "But thanks for worrying. I had fun. Maybe...maybe we could do it again sometime," she said softly.

He nodded, "Please. Yes. Call me."

That earned him a grin, and Virginia turned around to head up the half-block to the Metro station. He watched her for a few seconds, then sighed and turned around to walk the few blocks back to his office.

"Damn it, damn it, damn it."

Walter heard muttered curses and footsteps behind him, and turned. A whirl of hair around his face, then that lush mouth was pressed against his. Closed mouth. Just a brief meeting of lips, then Virginia pulled back.

Skinner stared at her in a frozen tableau for a long moment. "If you're going to do it, let's do it right," he said finally, and proceeded to do that very thing, arms around her surprisingly broad shoulders while his mouth captured hers again. This time, his tongue came out, her mouth opened and yes. Yes. That was a kiss. Her perfume settled around him, some musky, green scent, as unusual as its wearer. Her hair entangled itself around his fingers.

When he finally pulled back, Virginia looked pole-axed. It was the sexiest thing he'd ever seen, this leggy giraffe of a woman in shock because he kissed her. "You better damn sure call me," he instructed gruffly.

Virginia nodded with stunned eyes and turned to walk back toward the Metro station again. This time Skinner waited until she disappeared from sight down the stairs.

At the Hoover, he took one look at the paperwork, sneered and turned off the light. Let the damn stuff wait. Out in the garage, there were hardly any other cars remaining, just a handful of others. Skinner recognized one, a silvery blue sedan. Mulder's. Jesus, that boy was still at work after 11:00 on a Friday night? Maybe he should have a talk with him, force him to get a life.

He could highly recommend it.

*^*^*^*^*^*^

A few months later  
J.E. Hoover Building  
Washington, DC

Virginia still hadn't given him a telephone number or her address. A few times, he'd thought about tracing her calls, or even following her home, but sanity prevailed. He'd never thought he'd meet anyone else more paranoid than Mulder's Three Geeks. What was it about him that he kept attracting strangeness into his life? He leaned back in his chair, contemplating. Once upon a time, he'd been just like any other average person, boring, committed to family and his job, striving for the upwardly mobile American Dream.

Then somewhere along the way, his life took a weird left turn.

People who didn't exist became fixtures in his life. He broke the law. His marriage fell apart. Multiple attempts on his life, even on his ex-wife's life, became commonplace. He was dragged through the mud of scandal, and miraculously managed to survive, job in tact.

Scariest of all, Mulder's wild and crazy theories began to coalesce and actually make sense.

It had all happened so fast, everything was a fait accompli before he could get a handle on it. He felt like a spectator in his own life, watching it zoom by, playing out like a movie on a screen. When each Crisis of the Week appeared, he could only hold on for dear life and pray the storm would soon pass by. Didn't matter how much effort he made trying to fix things; he found he was usually working against a stacked deck. Maybe there was such a thing as predestination. In his darker moments, he merely hoped that his end fate would be a swift and merciful one. He would gladly skip over the suffering parts.

He thought of the latest of the oddities in his life, this relationship he'd established with the admittedly different Virginia. She seemed to take her name seriously. Skinner felt bizarre, pushing 50 and walking around with a very active, very unfulfilled libido. He was ready to move ahead with things. But Virginia skittered like a scared rabbit when it came to anything other than a good clinch. Okay, he could move slowly. But it was that damn pink elephant theory again--moving slowly was one thing, thinking slowly was quite another. And she managed to come up with a business trip each time things ended up intense.

He wanted to confront her about it, but didn't quite know how to go about doing it. "Listen, my dear, the basketball games and now the baseball have really been great, but I've really got the urge to strip you naked and discover everything your prissy, matronly clothes are hiding. The problem is, every time I get aroused and want to take it further, you go away for the next few days or even weeks, leaving me standing here, holding my...bag."

That sure as hell wouldn't go over too well. And it made him feel like that neanderthal he'd accused himself of being all those months back, or even worse, the good ol' boys who'd thought that a grope or two was to be expected of any woman participating in a "man's world".

But still, something was going to have to give sooner or later. Maybe he should just put this strange woman out of his head, out of his life, and concentrate on his work.

He fingered the weekly memo from the Deputy Director's office. Maybe he should volunteer to be the sacrificial top executive at the latest conference--what was it, Building Working Relationships in an Evolving Workplace. Mandatory for a great many of the agency's employees. He grimaced, contemplating the touchy-feely nature this workshop was sure to incorporate.

On the other hand, it was being given in San Francisco, and the weather out there had been lovely last time he'd visited. Plenty to do, good food. A good excuse to get out of hot, muggy DC, already in the 90s and barely June. And it would look good, since he'd managed to get out of representing the executive level for the past two years at any of these things.

He pushed a button on his phone. "Kim, draft a memo for the Deputy Director telling him I'm volunteering to attend the conference in San Francisco."

"Want me to make the arrangements?"

He heard the grin in her voice and sighed. She was probably looking forward to a boss-less office for that week. "Please. Thanks."

A change of scenery, that's what he needed. Maybe being away from DC would clear the fog in his brain, and whatever was niggling at him lately would finally come together in a way he could recognize.

And yeah, there was a certain amount of satisfaction in knowing that for once, he'd be the one out of town and unavailable if a certain ambiguous, evasive person finally called.

*^*^*^*^*^*^

The Westin St. Francis  
Union Square, San Francisco  
Just like Skinner thought, the workshop was one of those workshops. Employees loved them, not just for their vacation-like settings, but because there was a certain amount of voyeuristic-like titillation in watching their supervisors have to participate and bare all, putting all participants on an equal footing.

He hadn't earned his law degree and his nickname, "Old Stone Face" for nothing, however. Within his small workshop unit of ten and even in the larger combined setting, he took secret pleasure at the facilitator's futile and covert efforts to trick him into opening up and participating much more genuinely.

He hadn't come out here to be the entertainment; he could hold out a hell of a lot longer than these young, bouncy instructors could. The Marines had put him through rigorous POW training, and that was an experience a Marine never forgot. He simply stared at the sleek blonde with the razor-sharp suit and had visions of Charlie. Small wonder she quickly began to ignore him when calling for responses.

Three days of this pabulum. At least the accommodations were first-class; the hotel was superb. In his room, Skinner shucked his suit and tie in favor of something less formal. Too bad he was too visible; he'd love to ditch the workshop and prowl around the city.

Not that he'd admit that to anyone other than a peer. There was enough of that happening among the rank-and-file; he had to set a good example.

Which thought had him smiling ironically, wondering just what the full scuttlebutt had been after he'd been arrested for the murder of a callgirl. The murder charges hadn't stuck, thank God--or no, thank Mulder, decidedly a step removed from God--but the call girl bit couldn't be denied. If not for the backwash onto Sharon, he'd have thought the reputation garnered from it to be grimly satisfying: Stone Face wasn't such a stone, after all.

Not a stone. No.

The phone on the nightstand was close at hand; he sat and dialed out, punching in the necessary buttons. Bingo--pay dirt.

A familiar voice made tinny echoes across the telephone wires from his answering machine back in Crystal City. "Walter, I'm still out of town and will be until next week. Sorry, something else came up while I was out west on assignment. I...I miss you. Really." There was a long silence, then, "Gotta run. See you next week." A loud click marked the line disconnecting. With half an ear, Skinner listened to the rest of his messages; nothing important.

So she was 'out west', was she? He wondered if she happened to be in San Francisco. But how in the hell could he know? He knew nothing about her. Had only one contact number--an answering service where he could leave messages. He must need his head examined; it was a classic case. She couldn't make it plainer that she had something to hide. Maybe a husband, and when she told him about traveling on assignment, no doubt she was home with the spouse. As soon as he left, then she was free to play again. Did he really want to get tangled up in a sordid triangle that way? Hell no.

That decided, he buttoned his jeans, grabbed a jacket and headed out the door. He wanted to have a good time, dammit. He needed to put that frustrating woman out of his mind. A couple of beers should help him achieve that.

*^*^*^*^*^*^

Jazz at Pearl's  
San Francisco, California

Tonight had been payment for a hellishly tedious day. The jazz orchestra at Pearl's had been live and hot, closing the place down at 2am to an enthusiastic crowd. Great music and the great scotch he'd kicked back had Skinner feeling no pain as he sat back and let the nice taxi driver wind his way back to the Westin.

After 2am, and the city still jumped. Skinner stared out his window, watching the assortment of humanity pass by, never a boring pastime. Punks and goths, gays and lesbians, upwardly mobile suits and techno-geeks, he saw them all. Even--

"Stop! Stop the damn car, pull over here," Skinner cried out, gruff and urgent.

"But, Mister, we're still a few blocks from the Westin--" the cabbie complained as he pulled over to the curb.

Skinner cut him off with a $20 bill chucked carelessly through the small payment window. He rolled out of the back seat as fast as possible for a man of his size and drink history. His search bordered on frantic, heading up the street in the direction he'd seen the brown, wavy-haired woman stride.

That walk had caught Skinner's eye. No other woman he knew quite managed that long-legged lope, very unusual, almost...masculine in style. The walk, the wavy brown hair...

There she was. Heading into a small hotel. As fast as he could, Skinner made his way to the entrance and pushed through the double glass doors. Inside, the lobby decor reflected a turn-of-the-century design, with a large, mahogany front desk. Past the desk stood a bank of elevators, and the brunette stood waiting for one, swinging a key on a metal ID card.

That had to be Virginia. And he'd wondered earlier if she was also in San Francisco; what were the odds?

He strode past the desk, intent on the lone person at the elevators when a hand descended upon his shoulder.

"Excuse me, sir, may I ask your business?" The tall, dark-skinned gentleman in the quiet suit and the electronic ear piece looked very officious.

Hotel security. "I wanted to talk to Ms. Follis, she's right there--" Skinner turned around in time to see the doors to the elevator close shut, swallowing her up.

"I'm sorry, you'll have to call her room on the house phone since she didn't leave instructions to let you up. The phone is right over there, sir." The security man pointed politely to a seating arrangement with phones on the tables.

"Thanks." Skinner sighed, heading over to the phones. He waited impatiently for a minute, allowing her time to reach her room, then lifted the receiver and got the hotel operator. "Virginia Follis, please."

"I'm sorry, sir, we have no one listed under that name."

That stymied him, his mind stumbling. Maybe for security, she'd registered under another name? "Uh..." Immediately, a picture of the swinging keychain flashed into his mind, and he zeroed in on the large black numbers against the gold medallion. "Try..." he forced himself to read the small print in his memory, "...room 1154."

He heard a series of clicks, then a phone ringing. If this wasn't her, he had half an urge to camp out in the lobby until she reappeared again, to hell with the workshop. Life was too short; he'd learned that the hard way.

The phone stopped in mid-ring, and Skinner heard it shuffled on the other end.

"Yeah, Mulder."

Skinner nearly dropped the phone.

"Hey, Scully, is that you?"

It required concentration to breathe in, filling his lungs with enough air to wheeze out a hoarse, "Sorry, wrong room." He dropped the receiver in the direction of the phone, not aware if it made the hook. All he could think about was leaving, getting away. His mind blurred on anything else.

Outside, the doorman greeted him cheerfully, asking if he'd like a cab when Skinner stood there dumbly. Numb. He nodded, and couldn't have said if it was immediate or minutes before he slid into the back seat of another cab. He muttered out, "The Westin" when the driver inquired his destination, and the next thing he knew, they'd pulled up in front of its imposing edifice. Another $20 disappeared through the payment window, and he was out, striding through the grand lobby, ignoring the scattered FBI employees still out and about, and disappearing into an elevator all his own.

Peace. Silence. The wall of the elevator shimmered with watered silk, soft and cool against the back of his head. He shut his eyes, picturing that oh-so-familiar face, the eyes he couldn't quite place, the nose, damn it--how could he have overlooked that nose?--all the hundred and one clues that he, a trained, seasoned FBI executive, had missed.

Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. He'd kissed his own subordinate, a male subordinate. More than once. And with more than a passing affection. So much for the "straight and narrow." That thought gave him pause, and he contemplated it while exiting the elevator and walking to his room.

He thought about it while stripping down for bed, while mechanically using the bathroom, washing up and ridding his mouth of the lingering, sour taste of alcohol. As he slid under crisp sheets, Skinner decided to be ruthlessly honest with himself.

Yes, he now knew who and what Virginia was, but it didn't seem to be inhibiting his response to "her" in any way, shape or form. On the contrary, oh yeah, on the contrary. He couldn't ignore the rumblings and movement in his own body, and they combined to make it clear that it didn't have a problem with the revelation.

Which was a confusing mind-twister all of its own. How could a man go his entire life and not be aware of his own sexual proclivities? Or was it more than that, more than a simple black-and-white pigeonhole? Did it really matter? Was he really the same person he'd always been? Was Mulder? And what was he going to do about this revelation? How should he approach it?

The picture of an impish Virginia came to mind, shy and yet outspoken all at once. What the hell had Mulder thought behind those shuttered eyes when looking at him? Had he laughed knowing that Skinner had not once figured out the truth?

Of them all, that thought was too much. That damned demon in a wig wasn't going to get away with it. For the first time since he'd heard that achingly familiar nasal voice identify himself on the phone, Skinner smiled.

"Virginia" wasn't going to know what hit her.

*^*^*^*^*^*^

Assistant Director Walter Skinner's office  
J.E. Hoover Building  
Washington, DC

"Kim, ask Agent Mulder to step up to my office for a moment."

Time for step two of his plan. Step one had involved getting Virginia to agree to a date this coming Saturday night, and Skinner had smooth-talked his way into that when Virginia had called soon after his (their) return from San Francisco. When he'd pushed to pick her up at her place, Virginia had nearly shouted no, then countered that request with a suggestion that they meet at Skinner's apartment. Virginia said she felt more comfortable that way.

Of that fact, Skinner had no doubt.

His was a good strategy; he'd planned it out well to yield maximum satisfaction. For himself, of course; that wasn't exactly his objective when it came to his elusive girlfriend. Fear, dread, horror, guilt, embarrassment...those were some of the objectives that came to mind when he thought of Virginia.

A sharp rap on his door roused him from his thoughts, and he smiled grimly to himself. Curtain time.

"You wanted to see me, sir?"

Skinner leaned back in his chair. "Come in, Agent Mulder, have a seat." He watched Mulder's loose-limbed stride across the room and cursed himself again for a blind fool.

Silence reigned as Skinner frowned, drawing out the moment while Mulder squirmed slightly, waiting with strained patience.

"Agent Mulder, this matter is a private one of some delicacy. I..." Skinner paused, still frowning down at his desk, then looked up at Mulder in time to see the color drain away, leaving stark eyes as green as Skinner had ever seen them. "I hate to ask you, but I need someone I can trust with this."

Skinner's statement obviously confused Mulder; he had been expecting the worst. Some color began to creep back into his face, no doubt because Mulder had begun breathing again.

"I need you to do a background check on someone for me," Skinner said with convincing hesitation. "I...I've violated my own rules, after these past years, and got involved with someone I don't know much about. It...I'm concerned because of..." Skinner stopped, his discomfort nicely palpable.

"Because once burned, twice shy," Mulder finished for him, looking a bit green around the edges now.

Skinner nodded and reached out over the desk with a folded piece of paper in his hand. "This is all the information I know. I...I'd appreciate any information you can uncover." Skinner gave Mulder a significant look. "By any means. Once through the mill with the Consortium was one time too many for me; I need to know she's clean."

"Can I..." Mulder's voice cracked as he read the paper, and he cleared his throat and tried again. "Can I ask why you didn't do it yourself?"

Skinner looked away and rubbed absently at his neck. "I almost did, Mulder, but was afraid routine methods might alert someone if there was a more nefarious purpose behind this person's presence in my life. I know you've got access to...less traditional methods, methods that can't be traced. I'm hoping that you can utilize that route."

Heading nodding automatically, Mulder stared with an odd expression at the paper in his hand. "I'll do my best for you, sir. Is that all?"

"Yes. I appreciate your willingness to help me. I owe you."

Mulder shook his head as he stood up. "No, sir, I really don't think you do." With an odd duck of his head, he slunk out of the office.

Skinner smiled. Two steps down, one to go.

*^*^*^*^*^*^

Viva Towers  
Crystal City, Virginia

Saturday afternoon, and Mulder hadn't contacted him yet with his "findings". Skinner wondered what he was going to do: brand Virginia a Consortium plant and then disappear out of Skinner's life? It would be the easy way out.

Skinner thought about how much that idea disappointed him. He was still thinking it with half a mind tracking the Braves and the Mets on television when the phone rang. He stared at it, as if it might turn into a hissing snake at any moment, before shaking himself out of the funk and picking it up, speaking crisply into the receiver.

"Skinner."

"Sir, it's Mulder. I, uh, I've got the report you asked for, and I thought you'd want a heads up on the overall findings."

Skinner swallowed, staring at his own sweating hand as if it were an alien. His voice, though, was as rock-steady as usual. "Yes, Agent Mulder, I would appreciate that."

"After an extensive search of the information, nothing untoward came up. It appears that you can move ahead with whatever you had planned."

"I, uh, that's good to hear, Mulder, I'll do just that." Wasn't that prophetic. "Your diligence in this matter is appreciated. Why don't you take Monday off as compensatory time for your efforts?"

"Oh, but--"

"I insist, Mulder. Take Monday off. You could use the down time. I'll make sure the paperwork gets signed."

"Okay." Mulder's voice was faint. "Thanks, sir."

"Don't mention it, Agent Mulder. You deserve it."

Yes, indeed, Skinner thought as he replaced the phone. You certainly deserve it.

*^*^*^*^*^*^

The doorbell rang five hours later. After an entire afternoon spent wondering if he hadn't lost his mind, it had an anti-climactic feel to it.

"Please, come in." Skinner held the door open for his date to enter. He wondered if said person were remembering other times knocking on the door, for far different reasons.

Tonight, his date wore a dress. It was a lovely thing, a plum color with neutral shades swirling through it. Skinner covertly examined the outfit; it looked good, showing off long, sexy legs in low-heeled sling-back pumps--and he had to give credit where it was due. Virginia walked very gracefully in them.

The lipstick even matched the plum color of the dress. It seemed a certain insouciant style did cross the gender boundary.

"It's good to see you, Virginia. I'm glad you called."

Virginia seemed nervous, glancing around the room and avoiding Skinner's gaze. "Seems like I've been on the road with work forever. It's good to get back home."

Skinner closed the space between them until the front of his shirt brushed along the back of her dress. "And good to see familiar faces, I hope." His words stirred the strands of hair falling along the side of her face.

Virginia's breath caught. "Oh. Yes, I--"

Ignoring her words, Skinner leaned the rest of the way around and captured her mouth in a slow and thorough kiss.

He pulled back and whispered in her ear, "We've got plans for the evening, but I wouldn't mind staying here if you..."

"N-n-no," Virginia stammered. "Let's not change your original plans. That would be a shame." She blinked, flustered. "At least, I would think so. What, ah, what were the plans for this evening?"

Skinner turned away to slide into his suit coat, carefully hiding his satisfaction. "Dinner, drinks. Good conversation. Sound okay?"

Virginia nodded. "Sounds great, Walter."

Skinner held open the condo door for her again. "After you." He derived a great deal of pleasure watching his date's rear departing view, and didn't know whether to be shocked about that or not.

And decided on not. What the hell. He was a highly trained investigator; it had taken him a while, but he'd pretty much figured out the lay of the land.

And it wasn't as straight or narrow as he'd assumed.

*^*^*^*^*^*^

"The Wharf"  
Old Town Alexandria, Virginia

"Try one of these oysters."

"No thanks, really, I honestly don't like them, Walter."

"That's a shame." Skinner eyed the person seated across from him as he forked up one of the last oysters and let it slide down his throat. "You know what they say about oysters."

"Uhh. Yes."

"I hope you saved room for desert."

"Good grief, Walter, are you trying to fatten me up?" Virginia patted her stomach.

"Like a lamb before the slaughter?" Skinner watched his date's now-recognizable slow blink before smiling slightly. "I wanted to share the Ecstasy with you." Another blink, not so slow this time. "The Double Chocolate Ecstasy. Pure sin."

Virginia squirmed around in her chair. "Sounds like it. Is it legal?"

Skinner had to stifle his grin. "I'd say that depends."

"On what?"

"The chef."

"Uh-huh," Virginia subsided with a faint frown around her eyes.

The waiter came to clear the table of dishes and took their desert order.

"Plus two cognacs," Skinner added.

Virginia waited until the waiter had left. "Didn't we finish off a bottle of wine?"

"You, mostly. I'm driving," Skinner said.

Virginia stared at him as she tapped a long finger against her glass. "A woman might feel railroaded if she thought someone was trying to get her drunk."

Skinner pasted an surprised look on his face. "Get you drunk? Didn't I mention where we're going after this?"

"Driving spur-of-the-moment to Atlantic City to play the slots?" Virginia asked dryly.

Skinner laughed. "No. The Director is having an informal open house. All the upper level brass need to put in an appearance, and I thought we'd stop by."

"The Director?" Virginia blinked more than a few times, her voice rising to a near squeak. "Your boss? We're going to the Director's house?"

Skinner raised his eyebrows. "That is where he usually has his parties. Why?"

"Oh, but..." Virginia bit her lip. "Do we have to? I, uh, I'm not sure I'm comfortable with the idea of socializing with your coworkers."

Skinner reached over and took Virginia's hand in his. "There's no need to be shy, sweetheart. You'll do fine. Really, they're not a bad group. Nobody will be gunning for you."

"That'd be a welcome change from the usual," Virginia muttered under her breath as the waiter delivered their cognacs and desert.

Skinner had to bite the inside of his lip to keep from showing his reaction. "What did you say, Virginia?" He gazed innocently at his thoroughly unsettled companion.

"Just that...uh...I'm not sure I want to share you with anyone else. I'm really not up to a lot of superficial socialization tonight," Virginia pouted discretely. "Are you really obligated to show up? Or can we just stay here and have another drink and talk some more, just the two of us? I...I'm really having a nice evening," she gazed at him with limpid, expectant eyes.

Skinner sighed and pursed his mouth as if thinking, grasping her hand more closely between both of his. "I suppose I can make my excuses to the Director later, if you're seriously against the idea."

Virginia nodded vigorously.

"All right." In a slow move, he pulled Virginia's hand to his mouth, watching her eyes widen as he pressed a slow, intimate kiss to the palm of Virginia's hand, a small swipe of his tongue caressing her skin before he stopped. "If you want to stay and talk, we'll do that."

Virginia's mouth opened and closed, and she only nodded again.

Picking up the cognac glasses, he handed one to Virginia. "To happiness." Skinner clinked the glasses together and took a sip. "Drink up," he said. "Ecstasy is waiting."

Virginia remained wordless, only nodding and glancing at the chocolate confection of ganache and torte and raspberry drizzle.

Peace and agreeable silence and no arguments, and all without Skinner having to yell and say, "That's all, Agent Mulder. You are dismissed."

Nice, very nice. Skinner thought he could get to enjoy this. A lot.

*^*^*^*^*^*^

"Finish your drink, sweetheart."

"Oh. Yeah. But...n'more. Think I've had 'nough."

Skinner silently agreed with that analysis; Virginia's goose was well and thoroughly pickled. He glanced around at the thinning crowd, then at his watch. "I think we've just about outstayed our welcome, anyway. They're just waiting for us stragglers to leave so they can close up."

"I need to...to...powder my nose before we leave."

"Of course. Go, I'll handle the bill."

Skinner watched as the once-graceful Virginia stood up and wove her way to the restrooms, seeming all elbows and loose knees after a long evening of alcohol. Virginia's gratitude that they not attend the Director's party had relaxed her watchfulness, and she'd imbibed much more than she probably realized.

It's a cad's trick, thought Skinner. Get a lady drunk to have your way with her.

Virginia pushed open the door to the men's room, started, then turned and skulked into the lady's room next door.

Skinner grinned. I'm a real bastard, he thought, and was still grinning as he signed the credit card slip the waiter returned to him.

The tricky part was yet to come. But he had confidence he'd get his woman.

Even if she was a man.

*^*^*^*^*^*^

"Oh, no, no, y'don't hafta see me home, Walter."

"Virginia," Skinner said patiently, "I refuse to let you wander loose in your condition. It's too dangerous. Either I see you into your apartment, or you're coming back home with me. I'll make some coffee, help you sober up a bit."

The full lip was in glorious evidence. "Fine."

The drive back to Skinner's apartment was made with Virginia in glutted, inebriated silence, which bothered him not in the least. With a minimum of fuss, he helped her out of the car, into the elevator and up to his 17th floor condo.

Skinner hung up Virginia's wrap like a good host, and watched with amusement as she flounced over and flopped in a very unladylike way onto the couch.

"Let me start that coffee," he suggested, going to the kitchen and doing just that. While he found coffee and filters and poured water, the television came on in the living room, clicking through the numerous cable channels one after the other.

"Not much on this time of night except infomercials," he commented, coming back into the living room and sitting on the couch by his pouty date. The screen clicked to the next channel and immediately the room filled with the sounds of moans and groans. "And late-night adult programming."

Virginia turned an interesting shade of red and smashed the channel changer again until an innocuous old black and white movie appeared.

Skinner moved closer to her on the couch and reached out to play idly with her hair. "I had a very good time this evening. I hope you did, too."

"I...yeah, I did." Virginia nodded but refused to look his way. "This is a good oldie, Hepburn and Tracy."

"Mmm." Skinner moved closer again and pulled Virginia back to lay within the crook of his arm, her head on his shoulder. "That's better." He kept stroking her hair, eventually letting his hand wander down to her shoulder and neck, using a finger to stroke the skin there. "Isn't this the one where they work at the same place and get married?"

"Mmm-hmm," Virginia lolled bonelessly against him.

"Lots of fire and passion between them."

"Mmm-hmm."

"Sounds familiar," Skinner murmured, then tilted Virginia's chin up and kissed her hard, not giving her any chance to protest or draw back or do anything but be seduced by the feeling.

The knowledge of who was in his arms was clear in Skinner's head, but seemed a distant concern. Far more important was the way his partner's mouth opened and sucked in Skinner's tongue as if it were nourishment to someone starving. The way his partner's body rolled over and lay draped fully over him, so into their kiss that his partner had forgotten the need to be circumspect.

Lust surged through Skinner's blood, fueling his hot mouth and questing hands. To hell with the 'payback' he had planned for...this was much more important and immediate. He'd been seduced by his own plan. Should he be concerned? Should he stop and rethink his actions?

Virginia broke the kiss and dragged her mouth down Skinner's throat, stopping to nip at the hollow there.

Rethink? He could barely put two thoughts together to form a coherent whole. To hell with rethinking, to hell with circumspection. He was drunk on much more than alcohol. And it felt damn good.

He slid his hand up the silky slide of nylons, pushing aside the dress as he went until his hands were filled with the very thing he'd taken pleasure in viewing earlier in the evening. Firm and rounded, even under their nylon casing.

Virginia stopped suddenly, pushing up weakly from Skinner's chest. "Shouldn't--we can't..."

"Oh yes we can," Skinner countered and swallowed up any additional protests in another long kiss.

"Bu--I--you--" Virginia kept trying to speak while Skinner worked on rolling the nylon over squirming hips.

"Shhh," Skinner warned. "It'll be fine."

"No! You don't understand, we can't!" A sudden awareness of imminent danger cleared Virginia's head to the point of coherence. All her unexpected strength was suddenly brought to bear on trying to escape Skinner's embrace.

Damn it, they were so close. Fuck convention! Skinner pushed the nylons the last way down her squirming legs, and triumphant, reached around the silk underwear that had lain in wait beneath the nylons and plunged his hand beneath their edge.

And garnered himself a handful of hot, leaking cock and a nearly deaf left ear as Virginia shouted "her" surprise and joy at the top of "her" baritone lungs.

"Holy freakin' shit!"

The drama halted as if the director had yelled "Freeze!". Brown eyes peered up assessingly at wide hazel-green ones. They were as round as the mouth with the smeared lipstick below them.

"Shit," Virginia repeated again, at a loss for words.

Skinner really did like this side effect. The smeared make-up and skewed wig were kind of cute, too.

He squeezed his hand experimentally, and found gratification in the loud moan of lust that came out of Virginia's mouth, concurrent with the helpless thrust of cock further into his hand.

"But--this--its--you knew," Virginia accused even as "she" undulated further.

Skinner nodded, grasping harder.

Virginia nearly shrieked. "Yes! I mean, oh god, it's--"

Skinner had waited long enough. "Virgi--Mulder...Fox, shut up. Scream, but stop the damn arguing and complaining. Get it?"

"Uh, but--oh god--yes, I get it. I get it!"

After that, Mulder complied with his own quick and efficient derobing, tossing dress and bra and panties to the side. When hands began to reach for the wig, Skinner stopped them.

"No, keep it. I, uh, I like it." He couldn't stop the blush that heated his face at that admission.

"Yeah?" Mulder looked at him thoughtfully until Skinner flipped him over on the couch, underneath his own naked form.

"Shut up, Virginia. No profiling in bed."

"But--"

Skinner used the expedient method of shutting Mulder up: he grasped both of their cocks and slid his hand up and down once.

"Oh, yeah."

Skinner agreed; he did it again. And again, leaning down to feel that lovely, agile tongue against his own once more.

Squeezed and slid his hand up, slid it down, up and down, to the rhythm of the pounding in his blood, the swirl of tongue around his own.

He wondered what that tongue would feel like, curling around his cock, wavy hair tumbling against his thighs, those plum-colored lips all pouty and filled with his flesh.

He cried out, a rush of heat boiling up his spine and spilling over, scalding his hand as he tightened it around their heated flesh. White hot light blinded him, heated words buzzed in his ears as Mulder convulsed beneath him, Skinner's name on his lips. More wet heat slicked against their bellies as Mulder arched up in orgasm, rigid with pleasure.

Utterly relaxed, Skinner sagged down, face tucked into the crook of Mulder's neck and buried under a fall of hair. His full weight pressed heavily against Mulder's now-boneless body. The smell of Virginia's perfume mingled in the air with the musky scent of male sex and melded permanently with Skinner's feeling of complete satiation.

He smiled, seeing a vision of future erections after a simple whiff of Virginia's perfume.

"Don't wear that perfume to the office," he growled in Mulder's ear.

"Wha--? Whyn't?" Mulder mumbled, barely coherent.

"Just don't. Or else," Skinner warned.

"Or else what?" Mulder asked, stirring and stretching as much like a cat as he could and blinking up at Skinner with his own pleased, satiated grin.

Skinner didn't even stir. "Or else we're going to find out what other kinks I have hidden deep inside."

"Hmm. Like?" Mulder asked, interested.

Skinner pushed his mouth to Mulder's ear and hissed, "Spanking."

"Oh." Mulder thought, opened his mouth to speak, thought again and closed it. "Oh."

"Yeah. Oh." Skinner didn't want to move, thought of the couch upholstery beneath them and thought they'd better. "Come on, get up before we ruin the furniture," he ordered, peeling away from Mulder and crawling off the couch carefully.

Mulder stood. "Can I?" he gestured toward the wig. Skinner nodded, and he pulled it off with a sprinkle of bobby pins. One stayed stubbornly attached to his wildly matted hair.

The matted hair, smeared lipstick and eyeliner and dripping, congealing stomach were a sight. It touched Skinner, not with raucous hilarity, but something softer, more diffuse and at the same time, brighter. He wrapped a hand around Mulder's neck, pulled him in and kissed him, doing his best to rub away whatever lipstick was left.

"Shower," he instructed when he pulled back, leading Mulder to the stairs and pushing him up the stairs first.

Mulder went slowly, beginning to think again. "You're awfully sanguine about everything."

Skinner looked at the buttocks bouncing in his face and aimed a smart slap on Mulder's right cheek. "Don't look a gift horse in the mouth, Fox." He really liked the way the red print stood out against the white skin. And made another one.

"Shit!" Mulder jumped and turned, staring down at Skinner.

Skinner simply raised his eyebrows at him.

"Okay, okay, shower. First. Then talk. When did you figure it out? I didn't have a clue..." Mulder rambled on, and Skinner found himself tuning it out, getting lost in watching the movements of his errant wild-child. Mercurial, magic, tragic--all those things and so much more.

"...good God, Walter, what's with the luxury bathroom? Can we say, sybarite? And this water feels like it's nearing the boiling point! Ah, shit.." The soap squirted out of Mulder's hand and he bent over to pick it up.

And Skinner immediately knew the truth of the advice given about what to avoid doing when showering with other men. And put to lie how nearly-fifty-year-old men had very long refractory periods.

What, maybe...ten minutes max?

Skinner reached for his soap-slicked shower partner. Better than any fountain of youth.

*^*^*^*^*^*^

A few months later  
"701 Pennsylvania Avenue"  
Washington, DC

Skinner sat at the bar, impatient and trying to rein it in. Trying to enjoy the music rolling off the talented fingers of the piano player, but having little success.

Instead, he watched the door. People churned in and out of the place; it was a Friday night and Washington was letting its hair down.

That's what he wanted to do. So to speak. Let his hair down; crash. Relax. And he would, just as soon as a certain person showed up.

Fifteen days. Two weeks and one day since he inhaled that special perfume. He'd sent Agent Mulder out west on a request from the Seattle office, such routine decisions all part of the job.

His agent's coming home was not.

His glass rattled empty against the bar.

"Would you like another?" the barkeeper asked.

Skinner turned around on the stool and nodded, sighing. Wouldn't do to drink too much; didn't want to lose his edge with his younger, wilder partner.

"Thanks." Skinner passed over a few bills for the refilled scotch; single-malt, serious drinking stuff for a serious man. It slithered smoky-hot down his throat as he took a sip.

Waiting, he hated waiting.

His body registered it before he did; his erection started between his legs an instant before his mind sorted through the various input to single out the one thing he'd noticed: perfume.

"Hi, big boy. Mind if I have a seat?"

Except if he was waiting for Virginia.

She really was worth the wait.

-=the end=-

Meet Virginia

She doesn't own a dress  
Her hair is always a mess  
Catch her stealing, she won't confess  
She's beautiful.

Smokes a pack a day  
No wait, that's me, but anyway  
She doesn't care a thing about that, hey  
She thinks I'm beautiful.

Meet Virginia

She never compromises,  
Loves babies and surprises  
Wears high-heels when she exercises  
Ain't that beautiful?

Meet Virginia

Well, she wants to be the queen  
And she thinks about her scene  
Pulls her hair back as she screams:  
I don't really want to be the queen.

Daddy wrestles alligators  
Momma works on carburators  
Brother is a fine mediator  
For the President.

Here she is again on the phone  
Just like me hates to be alone  
We just like to sit at home  
And rip on the President.

Meet Virginia

Well she wants to live her life  
And she thinks about her life  
Pulls her hair back as she screams:  
I don't really want to live this life.

She only drinks coffee at midnight  
When the moment is not right.  
Her timing is quite unusual.

You see her confidence is tragic  
But her intuition magic  
And the shape of her body, unusual

Meet Virginia  
I can't wait to meet Virginia

Well, she wants to be the queen  
And she thinks about her scenes  
Well she wants to live her lies  
And she thinks about her lies  
Pulls her hair back as she screams:  
I don't really want to be the queen  
I don't really want to be the queen  
I don't really want to be the queen  
I don't really want to live this scene.

http://www.rumdogs.com/virginia.ram

rac <>  
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http://enook.net/  
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http://enook.net/requited.htm  
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http://enook.net/woundedheroes.htm


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